<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>An Inkling by dorkone</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365951">An Inkling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkone/pseuds/dorkone'>dorkone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rumbelle - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, OUAT - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:54:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,504</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365951</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkone/pseuds/dorkone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Through an unexpected addition in their afternoon tea, Belle and Rumplestiltskin are reminded of a forgotten exchange from their past.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Belle &amp; Gideon &amp; Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Part of Rumbelle Secret Santa for @boushh2187 on tumblr! The prompt was "Walk through fire for you." This is my first ever written fanfiction so please give me any tips for I would love to continue writing! Also part of an exchange found in the story is inspired from this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLfY9MKv6-4.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the great wide somewhere (yes, the great wide somewhere), Belle and Rumple conjure the most potent magical potion in all the realms: tea. Well, tea is tea and that is fact and however the two feel about their tea and however much cream and sugar is to be folded in is incomparable to the tea they will very soon drink.</p><p>Now—unrelated and entirely normal—every realm’s stovetop is different and this would not be the first time Belle’s choice of declining her husband’s use of magic to conjure heat for the teapot results in a blister or two. </p><p>“Oh!” she sucks in a breath of air and grips her wrist, the wrist that stings near her palm. </p><p>“Belle!” accustomed to the sound of his wife when she receives a burn, a set of hands come to aid her in an instant—hence, the occurrence is frequent. “Please, let me handle the oblivions of the stovetop,” he urges in strain as he inspects the small burn. </p><p>“Rumple, it’s fine. It’s only a minor affliction this time. It will heal,” Belle consoles sweetly so she may return to the tea preparations. Though consolation is of no effect since her husband will not listen. In truth, it is not the worst of the stovetop’s dark deeds (as she said) and Rumple’s careful inspection of the skin tells him as much—though it is never enough to let go of her small hand and make certain that she will indeed survive. </p><p>Belle resolves to an alternative approach: “You know I’d walk through fire for you,” which would be a romantic gesture if not for her sharp tone and the attempt of jerking her hand out of his. </p><p>“Yes, dear,” he says unyielding while maintaining the grip around her hand. </p><p>“Rumple, let go.”</p><p>“No, Belle.”</p><p>“Will you let go and grab the three teacups from the cupboard?”</p><p>“No, let me heal the wound first.”</p><p> “Mama?” asks a small boy who luckily pauses the couple’s customary quarrel. The child has clearly entered from his adventures in the garden for his pants are embroidered with mud and the knees are stained green. </p><p>“Everything is alright, Gideon,” Rumple assures as he releases Belle’s hand. “Your mother just has a small burn from the stove.”</p><p>“Oh, no. Will she be alright, papa?”</p><p>Belle eyes her husband as she collects the teacups herself. “Of course she will,” he says for her approval. “Your mother is very brave.” </p><p>“I read about burns, mama,” says the little boy. “I have weeds from the garden that can sooth the burn. I can show you.”</p><p>Even in their disagreement over mending burns, Belle and Rumple can be joined over their weariness of trusting herbs from distant realms—including realms they have inhabited over long periods of time.  </p><p>“That sounds lovely, darling but I think your papa would like to use magic for this one,” Belle reluctantly settles as she distributes lumps of sugar into the teacups. </p><p>“Please? I used the book you gave me to find it.” </p><p>Belle and Rumple’s eyes meet. The knowledge small Gideon attained from his mama certainly has its drawbacks and the couple are continuously working through ways to fan the flame of his capabilities while also learning to let him down gently. </p><p>“And I’m sure you’re right, son. Why don’t you help me heal your mum first, how is that?”</p><p>The little boy shakes his head in acceptance and the three of them meet in the center of the small kitchen to heal Belle of her minor affliction. </p><p>“She often strut around our castle,” says Rumple, figuring a good story will sooth Belle and Gideon. And so it does for Belle smiles at our castle as she sits in her chair.</p><p>Rumple kneels beside Gideon and holds him close, “She often strut around our castle with her arms, strong from her caretaker duties, bobbing at her sides and brushing against her light blue dress, acting as if the entire castle was hers, that her time there was not a permanent arrangement, away from family and friends but that every stroll through the long hallways and grand rooms was an adventure with gems waiting to be discovered.”</p><p>Gideon places his tiny hand over Rumple’s and together, in one perfect movement, they heal Belle’s marred flesh.</p><p>“And you want to know what my favorite gem was?” Belle asks, rubbing her unmarked skin. “My favorite gem was your father and he was a gem I took great care in uncovering. Once, my ‘strutting’ led me to trail right behind him and he was terrified his maid walked so close behind him.”</p><p>“Indeed, son. All I could muster was ah.”</p><p>Gideon giggles, “Ah?”</p><p>“Ah. I was so relieved when she turned at the last second and planted herself on the long table that I took it as a clue that she was not following me but wanted to claim the spot as her spot.”</p><p>“And you still sit on the table. Don’t you, mama?”</p><p>“And counters, my love. It’s the best spot to uncover mysteries,” she lifts up Gideon and sets him on the counter, near the teacups.</p><p>“See?” says Rumple, taking Belle’s hand into his for one final inspection. “Your mum is so brave she managed to scare the wits out of old dad.” </p><p>Belle smiles at him and holds onto his hand for a moment.</p><p>“Could I use the chipped teacup, please?” asks Gideon. </p><p>“Yes,” says Belle. “But be very careful with it.”</p><p>Rumple snaps his fingers and materializes the chipped teacup from the mantle in place of Gideon’s usual teacup and, to Belle’s irritation, the teacups are filled with the necessities and are ready to sip.</p><p>“Rumple,” she chastises in a hushed tone, bringing her cup to her lips. </p><p>Together, they sip their tea and through strange tastes, images of a past exchange push forward and overcome them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Potion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Belle,” he decides from the vault. He needs to see Belle. So he unhands the savior and appears in the library where he suspects she would be—collapsed on her floral chaise, lazing on the job.</p><p>For Rumplestiltskin, the night has been one of sorrow and he anticipated his rush to her warmly lit library would produce a measure of solace and so it does for the moment—he is welcomed by the sight of his maid snacking in the glimmer of the firelight. Tiny, yellow crumbs layer her lips and manifest at the corners of her mouth and atop her soft stomach rests the good porcelain—its teacup counterpart disfigured from her earliest inattentive effort at tea pouring—with traces of the freshly devoured lemon tea cakes. While Rumplestiltskin was not averse to his maid obliging herself of their delicate goodies commonly kept for their intricate afternoon tea, it is not until his eyes acclimate to the dimly lit room does his ease shift at an unfamiliar display. Belle had loosened the laces of her bodice to release her ample front and drawn her skirts above her knees, wrinkling the light blue garment beyond her regular hand smoothing.</p><p>If the night involved different circumstances, Rumplestiltskin would have cleared his throat to alert his maid of his unexpected appearance or better yet, a consensual knock on the door (he likes to think)—simply blaming the incident that caused his actions to alter to that of refinement on those pesky curtains and ladder, the ladder he has since vaulted. Nevertheless, the night’s troubling events pairing with her informative appearance permits Belle his snide assessment over the use of her newer ensemble as the second hint she receives of his entry, “When I fabricated the blue garment for you in place of that garish ball gown, I took it as you wished to acquire sensible attire for performing your end of the bargain. This is not the visual I had in mind.”</p><p>The first hint of his entry occurred when Belle swore she heard a whimper but assumed it was only her own stomach, full from her leisurely snacking. Still, her eyes open without care, ending odd imaginings of toads with reptilian and she peers into the ever quizzical eyes of Rumplestiltskin who stares over her. </p><p>Unmistakably, the downside of being under the employ of a sorcerer is magic, she has found, is not much of signal. It is not like a knock on the door or footsteps approaching from the hall (though she correctly assumes it is her library, she also wrongly figures her ownership is contingent on her chores, chores that are still to be done). Living with Rumplestiltskin and his reliance on magic is very unlike living with her papa and his reliance on loud, unpermitted charges—whose brash, leather boots against their castle’s wood flooring was the difference between a good scolding and successfully hiding one of her mother’s precious books under her pillow. But also unlike living with her papa whom she does miss, the perpetually strong-willed Belle knew she had enamored her employer and thus, she could get away with anything. </p><p>“Did you call my yellow ball gown garish?” she charges with her plump, crumb covered cheeks producing a mischievous smile. </p><p>Rumplestiltskin suppresses a smile of his own as his little maid attempts to eye his attire from her disadvantaged position, her blue eyes barely reaching past his waist coat. He takes two steps back to aid her scrutiny, “Don’t hurt yourself, dearie. Who then would fracture the finery?” He snaps his fingers to rid Belle of breaking the porcelain saucer, and he delights in its disappearance tickling her stomach. </p><p>“Certainty not me if I were turned into a toad,” she giggles from the puff of purple smoke in her ever so cheery way. </p><p>She adequately tightens the laces of her bodice as a courtesy and rolls over onto her feet—her light blue skirts tumbling to her ankles, obstructing the exceptional view and allowing Rumplestiltskin to remind himself the purpose of his materializing into her library. That and her toad comment. He had no real, genuine plans of transforming his favorable maid into a dry, bumpy toad—admittedly, he quite likes the way she looks with her inquisitive blue eyes and amusing demeanor and he would adorn her with thousands of yellow ball gowns, if he could only find the appropriate occasion—though over assessing the maid’s odd humor is (at this moment) pointless since they will not be remembering any of their recent or present exchanges. </p><p>With her toad comment and his yellow ball gown imaginings dismissed from his focus, he is able to cultivate his routine air of aloofness and therefore, opens his mouth to stake his very serious purpose for disrupting her privacy—but not before Belle disrupts his meticulously formed reserve by bending over to play with her ankles. </p><p>“The dress is sensible but the shoes are a little pointy,” she gingerly massages the tender skin marred by the straps of her light blue heels, the heels she wears to carry out her caregiver duties—the ones Rumplestiltskin materialized onto her body when she only requested a new dress. In truth, Belle views the footwear as lovely, dear additions though, also in truth, the pair cause more trouble than either of them intended with the shoes giving her ankles swellings not even her books could sooth. Belle knew simply asking for practical footwear would prevent the swellings but to avoid flustering her employer for a second time (the alarming ladder incident did not conclude with her neck broken after all), she studiously resolved to the remedial volumes in her library to aid in her healing and each of their authors strictly advised, “occurrences of the same lethal cause are most imprudent” and thus, the light blue heels have remained.</p><p>Massage, massage, massage. (Cleary, it is lost on Belle that her employer emerged into her reserved portion of the castle for a matter of utmost importance. If she knew the purpose, she would be less occupied.)</p><p>To Belle, it is no wonder the Enchanted Forest produces a lack of heroines—aside from the bandit Snow White who unquestionably forsaken her heels when she forsaken her title. If women’s shoes were less pointy and more supportive, she figured most able women would take up arms and write their own stories, as Snow White is. Or, perhaps, the women can use their heels in a different way. Belle decides with gusto, “I can take them off and then use them as weapons. I could rescue towns, save more villagers, help kingdoms. I can do it all. I can be just like Snow White!” </p><p>“It is new shoes you require?” the Dark One demands. </p><p>Belle, perceiving his question as curt, immediately recedes her massaging and rephrases her statement. “No, no. I like the shoes,” she assures in haste. Her last recollection of his odd tone ensued her receiving of the library, therefore, her happy disposition is held. Rather, she optimistically brushes the loose crumbs from her face and stands up straight, using her best posture as her way of urging him to resume whatever it is that brought him to her library, “So, Rumplestiltskin,” she gently articulates, “tell me what you need.” </p><p>He does not answer. </p><p>And he is not positioned near her chaise where he once was, where she expected he would be. The only figure standing before Belle is one consumed by the pitch black crook of the library, untouched from the dimming firelight. </p><p>Her long lashes flutter as she efforts to study her employer. “Is everything alright?” she asks but he turns his back on her. </p><p>She bites her lip. Perhaps it is the elevation from the sugary tea cakes that guide her for—instead of summoning her strong-willed manner to engage in unfavorable quarreling—she decides to take the route that her employer may need the most. </p><p>“Hold on,” she voices to him and she hopes he hears it. </p><p>From the security of the dark crook, the Dark One hears shuffling from the opposite end of the library and it hinders the dark whisper, the one who beckoned Rumplestiltskin to conceal in the security of the darkness. If his ears are not betraying him, he swears he hears wood striking against wood following the abrupt sound of Belle sucking in a breath of air. </p><p>“Oh!” </p><p>At this, he shifts from his position in the darkness and heeds Belle sucking on one small finger near a lit candle. Not completely lost to the darkness, the Dark One is able to construct that his maid has indeed burned her finger and the cruel sight is sufficient for him to abandon his safety in the crook and come to her aid.</p><p>“Rumplestiltskin!” Belle voices in surprise, her finger departing her mouth as her employer rushes towards her.</p><p>As if possessed and thus without word, his rush halts in front of his maid and by some miracle, he reaches forward and places two of his coarse fingers around hers, marred red from the fire and wet with her saliva, and brings it close to him.</p><p>“This never happens, I am usually very careful,” perhaps true, it does not matter—she laughs tensely as tears form at her eyes.</p><p>Her pain eminent, he stares for a moment, careful not to pinch, and raises his free hand to gently pass over the scorched redness and it becomes red and stingy no more.</p><p>She gasps from the pain forsaken and he releases her unmarked finger. </p><p>“Thank you,” she praises with her voice nevertheless shaken. </p><p>“Better?” he examines. </p><p>“Better,” she confirms with a smile. “Much better.”</p><p>They stand far apart for a moment—Rumplestiltskin with his silver tongue and Belle with her array of knowledge and out-spoken manner—neither of the two are able to summon the words they are desperate to say. Though it is written in the way she nibbles on her lower lip and it is written in his eyes. </p><p>Belle, unmistakably the braver of the two, opens her mouth to stake her thoughts, the thoughts and feelings formed the moment she fell from the ladder but this time, she is interrupted by words far more upsetting than bending over to play with one’s ankles. </p><p>“Leave, Belle,” he says in warning. </p><p>Unaware his actions were in warning and unprepared for his words, she blinks as she attempts to understand, “What? What did you say?”</p><p>“Leave, Belle. You must go.”</p><p>“I don’t understand. Our deal. Have I done something wrong?”</p><p>“I will uphold my end of the deal but please—“</p><p>She takes steps forward, “Why? Why would you bring me here only to send me away?” She studies his expression at close proximity as if she were reading a guide written in a foreign language and rightly so, her employer appears human and not of his routine air he used to attain her just a month or so prior. His eyes, though of a lizard, are crestfallen and concentrate on the floorboards and his customary presumptuous body language has acceded to meekness. “Has something happened?” she solicits, careful not to startle him.<br/>
As her last hope dwindles and their silence grows louder, her employer lifts his eyes to meet hers and she feels she is meeting Rumplestiltskin for the first time. </p><p>“Tell me,” she says softly.</p><p>“Go, Belle. Leave this place,” he appeals for a second time. Within his eyes meeting hers, he recalls the book of a darker shade of blue, his maid’s favorite book, the one she read by the fountain to the little children, the first time he saw her. Her accented voice—so appealing. So believable. One he knew he would not soon forget. He understood then she craved adventure, a chance to find a special place beyond what fate had chosen for her, as Milah did. As Baelfire did. Baelfire. And he knows that it was he, the man then the monster, who drove his wife and son away by his indifference of their wishes and he fears, deep down in his blackened heart, a fear not so easily expunged, even being entirely in control of his maid’s fate, that he might have a recurrence of the same events. Only, in time, the maid will hate him. “I know what you crave. I know you want adventure, just like Snow White. Go. It’s all waiting for you. Change your fate. Go.”</p><p>Tears form once more in Belle’s eyes, the reverse of what Rumplestiltskin wished for, “You think you can be rid of me so easily?” She manages to gulp but the tears fall. </p><p>“No,” he states.</p><p>“You underestimate me?”</p><p>“Never.”</p><p>Her gaze is hard and her upper lips stiffens. She closes the gap between them and he cannot conceal into the darkness once more, he is overcome by her. She wraps her strong arms around him, strong from dusting and sweeping, and envelopes him—meaning to never let him go and she rests her head on his chest so she can hear his heart.</p><p>“I’d walk through fire for you, you know?” she says sternly. “It is not the light that has taken root in you. It is the darkness. I will light your way. I’d protect you.”</p><p>He cannot speak. He cannot respond.</p><p>“So, please tell me what is wrong and I will help you, Rumplestiltskin. I will help you.”</p><p>Rumplestiltskin, the most powerful conjurer of dark magic in all the realms, is defeated and he knows not what to do. “I don’t know where to begin,” he says in honesty, so much so he cannot recognize the voice that has spoken it.</p><p>“Begin by wrapping your arms around me,” she instructs from his chest.</p><p>He does so. His coarse hand finds her soft flesh that peeks from her white sleeve and the other rests near the small of her back, against the fabric of the light blue garment. </p><p>“Good,” Belle breathes evenly, so calmed she could sleep. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”</p><p>“My son,” he begins.</p><p>“You have a son?”</p><p>“Yes,” he rests his cheek atop her head and takes in the blueberry and straw scent of her chestnut hair. The scent of summer, summers spent in his hovel with Bae nestled at his feet as he wove. Little Bae with his plump cheeks, messy hair and hazel eyes. “His name is Baelfire.”</p><p>“Baelfire. Where is Baelfire?”</p><p>“I lost him,” he pauses though he meant to stop. He knows his wording is that of a lie and lying to Belle is no longer sufficient nor right. “I lost him through a portal, a portal to a land without magic after promising him I would go with him to rid myself of the darkness. I did not go.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because I am a coward,” he begins to shake and she nuzzles into him tighter, adjusting her hand so it could comb through his hair. “I was so afraid to be without power and I have not seen him since. I abandoned him and have spent 300 years finding him.”</p><p>With concerned eyes, she lifts her head up to him. </p><p>He answers before she can ask, “He is not dead, Belle but he will die.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“The woman who came to the castle, she is from the future, the daughter of Snow White and she told me he will die,” with care, he retracts his hand from her arm and materializes a vial of purple liquid. “And I wish to forget it. That is why I came to you tonight, so you can forget. This vial will erase a few days of memory but I will not ask you to do that.” </p><p>Her head filled with questions, she chooses to ask the most important one, “Will it be helpful if I forget?” She examines the glittering potion while caressing the vial with her once marred finger—a marvelous display of her inquisition he wishes to savor forever and it reminds him of the savior’s words, It’s a miracle you two fell for each other. </p><p>Deciding to omit disclosing the savior’s words to Belle, he begins to lower the vial from her view, however she grips his hand and brings it back, “There is only one vial.”</p><p>“Yes,” he responds though it is more in the form of a question. </p><p>“Are we sharing it?” she asks.</p><p>He examines her expression, his ever quizzical eyes taking in her inquisitive ones, “Do you mean to…”</p><p>“I would need to drink the potion, just as much as you do. The daughter of Snow White did say we fall for each other and if I don’t drink the potion, it might take us on another path.”</p><p>His mouth falls agape and, in haste, he retraces the memory of her position to assess whether or not she was present when the savior spoke the words, “That insipid woman and her pirate fool! You did hear that.”</p><p>Belle smiles to herself and her eyes gently rise to meet his, “Now, I don’t believe the woman gave us enough credit. You are not unlovable, Rumplestiltskin and neither am I. Falling in love with you was very easy. Actually, you are one of the greatest friends I ever had—you listen to me and I know my opinion matters to you. But it hasn’t been all ease, of course. Knowing you has been my greatest adventure.”</p><p>He falls silent again, his silver tongue slain once more and all the powerful sorcerer can achieve is materializing a second cold vial in his free hand, saddened by the sudden loss of Belle’s warmth. </p><p>“You could give me a rose. I’ve always wanted a rose. And I love dancing. That might help,” she suggests genuinely. </p><p>A coarse thumb tenderly smooths over the glass of one of the vials and it activates a purple glow in each.</p><p>“What is that?” she asks.</p><p>“An inkling,” he explains quite simply. </p><p>She receives the glowing vial and cradles it with care. She easily pops the cork to release the light kept tightly inside and its glimmers mixes and cultivates sparkle in her blue eyes. </p><p>Before, she can bring the vial to her lips, Rumplestiltskin reaches forward and caresses the softness of her cheek, unworried his coarse palm might harm her lovely skin. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, his entire hand on her cheek could cradle her head. </p><p>Belle, so little and softhearted yet so certain and strong. “You will find me again,” she promises. </p><p>And together, with trust and promise, they drink.</p><p> </p><p>The two feel a bad taste swish in their mouths as liquid retreats down their throat and their faces contort to that of being forced fed weeks old meat pies. </p><p>As the taste slowly dissolves, the only trace of the source is found in the tiny glass bottle each are holding. While Rumplestiltskin begins his analysis of the glass bottle, Belle has an examination of her own: the laces of her bodice are only adequately pulled in, her light blue skirts are wrinkled beyond her regular hand smoothing and her light blue heels—the heels she wears to carry out her caregiver duties—are absent. She ponders the reason why she would appear so unkempt in the presence of her employer and (perhaps chasing a daydream commonly kept for sweeping) she hastens to a rather interesting conclusion.</p><p>“Did? Did—did you and I—?” she makes a face at him, expecting him to have an answer for her implications. </p><p>He raises an eyebrow and then gives his maid a once over. “What!” he answers in a high-pitched voice. “Of course not!” Remarkably or rather unremarkably, her implications are not lost on him which is very telling. Additionally, (and truthfully to compliment Belle on her approach to appear only professional) he had never seen his maid quite undone before—if the maid dabbles in cosmetics, the colors are certainly smeared. </p><p>“Well, I don’t know!” she defends with her cheeks transforming to a deep shade of rose red. “Why are we both here and why is my…” unable to recall the proper word for bodice, “why is my thing practically undone and my skirts all wrinkled? And where are my shoes?” </p><p>Clearly, Belle is communicating to her employer though her employer slowly draws his eyes to the other side of the library, pretending she is merely speaking to her books and wishing to not take in the appealing sight anymore. It is obvious that her employer is as embarrassed as she, indicating he will be of no assistance in her investigation and thus, she rolls her eyes and resolves to forgetting for both their sakes. “So, what about the vials?” she questions while heatedly jerking at the strings of her bodice. </p><p>He points a finger in the air, “Ah! The vials!”</p><p>“Yes, the vials. We don’t know what they’re for? Are they for anything?”</p><p>“Well,” he dances around the notion. “They couldn’t possibly be for nothing which means they must be for something!” He unabashedly turns to catch a glimpse of his maid to see whether or not she laughs at his attempt at humor and to his enjoyment, she gives into chuckles even through her shame. “Rest assured, maid. I will get to the bottom of this. Until then, into the vault.” </p><p>The fact that he means the two emptied vials are the ones to be placed into the vault’s custody is not lost on Belle, however, warmed by his care for her wellbeing and recognizing another chance in his arms might be a precarious endeavor after her implication, she takes it upon herself to thank him in another way.</p><p>“You better not throw me into that vault.”</p><p>A humorous sight, her words terminate his analyzing of the vials and trigger his lizard like eyes to bulge. Truly, he sees her as the oddest person he has ever met, “You may be in there next.”</p><p>She shakes her head in protest, “Oh, no. Not happening.”</p><p>“I am telling you.”</p><p>“The heels will come off.”</p><p>“Any stuff for you,” he settles at the concept of Belle arming herself with the pointy end of her light blue caretaker heels—a fine heroine in his opinion and in his new found imaginings (imaginings he will likely try to expunge later at his wheel), his eyes bulge for a second time: “Are your shoes uncomfortable?” he suddenly demands. </p><p>“Oh. A little,” she says sheepishly. </p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me?” as quickly as he can, by the snap of his fingers, he materializes a pair of light blue slippers onto her feet.</p><p>“I didn’t want to cause you anymore trouble,” she confesses while appraising the supportive and cushiony slippers, approaching him step by step as she measures the comfort. “You know? Because of the ladder? Thank you, by the way. Thank you, again.” </p><p>Generally, the heedless inhabitants of the Enchanted Forest know at the very least to keep their distance when colluding with The Dark One, consequently, he can never decide if her lack of apprehension on his part was foolish or perhaps… something more? Rumplestiltskin rejects the idea for it cannot be. Or, he wagers, is this her being brave, like the heroes in one of her books when facing the beast? It may be wise for Rumplestiltskin to resolve to simply predict her random bouts of appreciation, her good moods, her bewildering enquiries over niceties and purposes of libraries and such for the remainder of their association. Forever, per their agreement.</p><p>“No matter,” he musters though Belle knows he has become uneasy, judging by the haste in which his thumb rubs over his index finger, an indication of his nervousness she supposes is the same movement he habits while turning straw into gold at his spinning wheel.</p><p>But comes the matter: seemingly unprovoked, she wraps her arms around him completely to enact a hug and subsequently, gives him a look that says wasn’t that nice? And it makes him hiccup. Who knew the Dark One could hiccup? Not since the formation of Nimue had the bearer of the dark curse ever hiccupped and the unfamiliar sensation that links him to his human form from 300 years ago is enough to coax him into the darkness but her grip holds firm.</p><p>No, he notes, she had let go. But he still feels her and yes, it is nice and he has half a mind to plant roses in the garden.</p><p>“Tea?” she asks. </p><p>“Tea,” he responds.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tea.</p><p>“What was that?” Belle asks alarmed.</p><p>Rumple sifts through the tea, swishing the liquid side to side until he spots an irregularity at the bottom: a weed with pink thorns.</p><p>“Son,” he breaths out. “Son, is this the healing weed you put in the cups?”</p><p>Gideon, small and sweet, only slowly shakes his head in response to his papa’s question.</p><p>“Gideon,” Belle says, setting her teacup aside and combing his hair in place. “Why did you put the weed in the tea without our permission?”</p><p>“I did get permission, mama. Papa said we will heal you first so I put the weed in second.”</p><p>Belle and Rumple’s mouths fall agape, hardly able to register the large sum of memories remembered, neither of them can muster a proper response to their son’s reasonable response. Instead, the two of them break down and begin to howl with laughter. </p><p>Gideon smiles from his spot on the counter as Belle, her laughter causing her to bend over with stomach pains, holds onto his tiny hand. </p><p>“I never would have turned you into a toad,” Rumple begins, his dimples showing through in a beautiful display. </p><p>“I wish you would have,” Belle says, tears coming out of her eyes.</p><p>He manages to reach Belle and Gideon and wraps his arms around the two of them and the three settle down from their fit of giggles and breathe soundly again.</p><p>“It looks like my advice worked,” she says into his chest.</p><p>“It did, didn’t it?”</p><p>“You gave me a rose. You’ve danced with me.”</p><p>“We’ve had a busy life, haven’t we?”</p><p>“Yes. And I would have walked through fire for you. I would still walk through fire for you. But maybe not anytime soon… maybe not in the next coming months.”</p><p>Rumple briefly releases Gideon and takes hold of Belle’s shoulders, “Belle…”</p><p>“I’m a few months along, can you believe it?”</p><p>He places his hand over her stomach, “We need a protection spell.”</p><p>“I won’t deny you that.”</p><p>“Am I going to have a little brother?” Gideon asks in glee.</p><p>“I’m not certain, my love,” Belle says, turning her attention back to Rumple. “For now, we’ll call the little blossom Rose.”</p><p>“You’ve always wanted a Rose,” Rumple smiles so warmly and so attentively, he snaps his fingers four separate times. One to conjure music, one to conjure a chandelier, one to adorn Belle in the yellow ball gown and one to adorn himself in the blue suit Belle has always favorited.</p><p>And the two begin to dance in their tiny kitchen while Gideon takes in the familiar site and sips tea from the chipped teacup.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>